


The Sign of Three and a Half

by poesparakeet



Series: The Sign of Three and a Half [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, John Watson Angst, Johnlockary - Freeform, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Tickling, emotion, h/c, post baby fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 07:47:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2183652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poesparakeet/pseuds/poesparakeet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the title fic of this series we see revelations come to light about the exact nature of Sherlock's relationship with the Watsons. A get together fic. Quite fluffy once you get past the pointy bit at the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sign of Three and a Half

**Author's Note:**

> You can reach me via tumblr for chatting, prompts, praise at www.poesparakeet.tumblr.com
> 
> Update: I've started writing original tickling fiction. That blog can be found at   
> www.prudence-please-tickle.tumblr.com  
> I published my first ebook recently, and I'm pretty proud! There's a link on the sidebar of the porn blog I just mentioned.

Part 1: THERE ARE NO LIMITS

It happened so fast it made her dizzy. Mary had training, she’d been in situations where the chips fell so quickly that one was lucky to catch a glimpse of where they landed. That day in the Piccadilly tube station she swore she must have passed out without realizing it, surely she was missing time? But when she’d asked John what happened even he didn’t seem to know, and he’d been on his feet, waving an illegal firearm and screaming, yelling at Sherlock to move, move dammit!

John had been too late, or Sherlock hadn’t listened. She wasn’t sure because before she’d been able to see what her stoic husband was shouting about she’d taken a hard blow to the nose, leaving her on the floor and temporarily blinded. She’d been on her feet before the red fog had cleared from her eyes, stumbling down the steps with John no longer beside her. He was ahead, still yelling, but she couldn’t hear him over the shriek of the station. She rounded the corner just in time to see Sherlock shoved against the side of the moving train, bouncing, thank god, away from the deadly locomotive and collapsing limp as a rag doll on the platform. By the time she reached John’s side, collapsed on his knees next to the detective, the platform was spattered with blood that ran toward the tracks and dripped into the infamous London gap.

At the hospital everything became very still. She and John sat next to each other but didn’t touch. The doctor’s face was blank, eyes furious. Mary stayed quiet, because when she’d asked him what happened he’d been short with her when he said he didn’t know. Few things made John angrier than he made himself. She thought about grabbing him, shaking him, telling him it’s not his fault that their idiot genius didn’t listen, but it was hard to be angry with Sherlock after seeing him carted away with his body shattered.

So she stayed silent, moving to press their shoulders together only when his iron stare turned from the wall to glance her way. He inclined his head in her direction and she took it as approval. Together? Yes. Together.

It was a day and a half later, hours of hospital waiting rooms and long conversations about care and history later, that they got to take him home. Home was no question, and neither of them even glanced at the door of 221 B as they made the slow journey up the stairs and ushered the detective into C. Mary watched, soft hearted, as John set Sherlock on the sofa with gentleness that should have been impossible for such calloused hands.

The final tally had been: Two broken wrists, a badly damaged ankle and a map of bruises and lacerations that covered one side of his body like thick paint. Sherlock was wrapped in bandages and braces, which of course he kept picking at. There had been some concern about him losing dexterity in his hands, but a less than surprising visit from Mycroft and a consult from a leading surgeon who’d looked a little frightened and more than a little unsure of why he’d been scooped up in Geneva and flown to London had assuaged those concerns. They’d wanted to keep him at the hospital even longer, but Mycroft’s declaration that John was Sherlock’s “Personal Physician” had gotten them leave to take him somewhere more comfortable.

Mary moved to sit next to him, timidly lifting the pillow under his head and inserting her legs under it. He looked at her with a blurry squint for a moment, on his side facing the back cushions as was his habit, before turning his face to bury his nose in the soft white pillow. She patted his shoulder, then sat quiet as a warm bed.

The penetrating silence of the flat was shattered as the phone rang. Sherlock grunted, wincing at the sound. John rushed out of the kitchen, mug of steeping tea balanced carefully, to pick it up from it’s place on the mantle.

“Hello? Hi Mrs Holmes… Wanda, sorry… yes we just got him home. Oh! Is that her? Yeah, she’s a talkative one… No words yet though. But she’s been good for you?”

Sherlock’s mother had been a brilliant mathematician before giving up academia to raise her outrageous children. At some point she had also decided that her sons’ distaste for pair bonding and procreation would not stop her from having grandchildren. She and her husband had dropped a number of hints about babysitting and ‘giving the new parents a break’ since Edith was born. John had been weary of letting their little daughter out of their sight for more than a few hours, but they’d been forced to leave a screaming baby with a head cold at the Holmes’ for an evening to visit John’s dying great aunt and they’d come back to find her sleeping contently against the chest of a snoozing Mr. Holmes in front of the fireplace. After that John could hardly find an excuse not to let Edith stay the weekend in Sussex.

The incident at Piccadilly happened only a few hours after they’d dropped her off so Mary supposed it was lucky timing. She listened to John laugh at a story that from his jolly “Oh no!” was probably about Edith puking mashed peas at an inopportune moment. He would relay it to her later. She felt tension leave the room as Sherlock’s frame settled into the lumps of their couch and their body’s warmed the pillows between them. Safe. Everyone was safe. She relaxed.

With her mind blanketed by exhaustion, her fingers started to wind themselves into Sherlock’s hair, soft as a cat’s with a mess of curls that swallowed her hand. His scalp seemed unbearably hot and she stroked it, hair untwisting through her fingers. He shuddered. She did it again, slow and deep as the rhythm of the tide.

“Mary.” Sherlock croaked, the pressure of his breath hitching when his whole body shivered.

“What is it Sherlock?” She kept her voice even and serene. Never stopping her motions but tilting her head to better hear him.

He was breathless. “You’re… petting my head.” Another shudder when her fingertips skipped over the edge of his hairline at the nape.

“Yeah. Want me to stop?”

No solid answer, just an embarrassed turn of the head that may have been an aborted ‘no’. His spine twisted, though, and his back straitened a little. The subtle posture seemed to signal consent, so she didn’t cease in touching him.

John came in from the next room. He budged Sherlock over a little so he could perch on the edge of the sofa facing Mary. He spoke softly over the detective’s head.

“Eddie’s fine. Really delighted with the snow and the little sled. I’m going to pick her up on Tuesday instead of Monday, though, Wanda insisted. I mean…” he sighed, his voice taking a rough edge. “We don’t want her to see him like this.”

She had been thinking of Edith, she was almost always thinking of Edith, but John’s words brought her back to the there and now. She looked at John, then between them at Sherlock. Mary’s hand was still in the sleeping detective’s hair, and one of John’s was mindlessly, rhythmically rubbing a flat palm in circles on Sherlock’s upper back. Mary watched as they kept time with one another.

When she looked up again John was looking at her, his jaw set and lips pursed. His eyes were level with hers, and despite the stoic features she was certain he was asking her for something. Pleading for it, wanting indulgence and forgiveness all at once. Both of their hands stilled. Mary felt that her heart was under great weight, and she clenched her fist in Sherlock’s hair before letting go and gently raising her hand to cover John’s.

He’d been staring at it, their eyes met again.

Mary didn’t know what to say, because a wedding, a baby, and a murder later what was there to say? How did she express on John’s behalf the years of excitement, admiration, love, anger, deception and grief that he and Sherlock had shared? There are limits, John had said at their wedding, as though he was trying to convince himself it was true. There were no limits where Sherlock Holmes was concerned, though, hadn’t they learned that by now? No limits to the loyalty and love of John Watson, either, those were in infinite supply.

What about me? She asked herself. Do I have limits? She remembered a monogrammed usb stick in the fire at the Holmes’ Sussex house, and thought no. The only thing that had bound her before was the lie, and that was gone. Her husband had freed her from it. So she would free him.

“I love him too.”

John made a gutted sound, teeth gritting. He gasped for a moment, trying to find something to say. She did it for him.

“It’s alright, John.” She leaned forward, careful not to disturb Sherlock who was, unbelievably, still asleep. She locked their eyes and told him again. “It’s fine.”

Tears jumped into his eyes, seeming to surprise even him. “But we cant—”

“—nobody’s business.”

“Eddie—”

“—is adored.”

John’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “But what if he..” The doctor couldn’t even finish the sentence. The camel’s back had broken, the milk had spilled. Mary had a sudden feeling of terrible intimacy, as though she was witnessing her husband rip the bandages off of a wound and peering under his skin. This had been a long time coming.

She would never be certain if Sherlock heard the conversation that followed.

*****

Part 2: THREE PEOPLE WHO LIKE EACH OTHER GO OUT AND HAVE FUN

 

John and Mary made a marvelous team. Nobody would ever doubt that again, least of all Sherlock Holmes.

The first step, of course, was to let Sherlock heal. They waited six weeks (and one frustrating case solved on crutches)before they even started planning. A babysitter was booked. Molly was overjoyed when asked, and she wasn’t even in on the fact that Sherlock was included in the ‘date night’ plans. Mary had suggested just telling her so she didn’t question why Sherlock wasn’t doing it, but John couldn’t bring himself to.

The language developed between husband and wife (love, crush, bloody fucking cheekbones)still wouldn’t come out around anyone but Mary. Not even Sherlock, though that was a relief. Properly, they’d said. We’ll do it properly.

Moist garlic lamb and lemon mashed potatoes. Baby taken care of. Fire started, candles lit, lights turned low. When the smell of the lamb brought Sherlock across the hall into C one almost might have guessed that the ambiance was lost on Sherlock, if anything was ever lost on Sherlock.

They were in a sweet spot now, no case at the moment, but the last one had been a nine and seemed to be keeping the detective tided over for now. He rattled around in B, composed, experimented, babysat, and read.

So they were all in high spirits that night. Sherlock was moderately charming, and Mary was radiant. A small glittering clip in her short hair gave the gentlest impression of a crown. They were both so beautiful he thought his heart might stop.

She and Sherlock shared a small bottle of wine, John had beer. His third, because the very thought of courting Sherlock with his wife kept making him freeze up inside. He’d even found himself pondering which jumper was his most deep and complex that afternoon when he’d changed his clothes, because god did he want Sherlock to go on all night about him.

The meal went well. The food was delicious, and there was something infinitely satisfying about feeding Sherlock until he was full. Somewhere along the way John managed to match his mood to Mary’s, going from tipsy and awkwardly terrified to playful and yes, even flirtatious. He laughed, he winked, he leaned in close and touched freely.

By the end of the meal Sherlock must have known that something was different, but he showed no sign. Perhaps this had been so long coming that it felt natural, John thought, or perhaps they were really just so transparent that it was no surprise. He turned out to be wrong.

 

PART 3: THE TWO PEOPLE WHO LOVE YOU MOST IN THIS WORLD

 

The truth is Sherlock had become more or less used to both Watsons showering him with affection. While he did observe a distinct increase in physical intimacy and attention from the couple that evening, it was easily explained away by the alcohol, the food, the absence of a sleeping baby, or general good spirits.

They were sitting on the too-smooth wooden stools at the kitchen’s island after stacking the dishes in the sink. Their usual arrangement was John on the end with Sherlock and Mary on either side, but this time Mary had moved next to Sherlock, leaving him flanked by Watsons.

The touches got more frequent. Mary stood behind him, glass in one hand, leaning on his back with her head on his shoulder to listen to John speak before taking her own seat. John’s hands brushed his where they were folded on the table. Mary leaned in to stage whisper to him, hot breath flooding the shell of his ear. When she stopped John tousled his hair.

Sherlock found he felt more secure than surrounded, more intimate than invaded. The world seemed to come closer to him.

“I wish you still had the uniform, honestly.” Mary told John with a teasing grin. “All the girls love a soldier.”

“Sailor.” John corrected. “Besides, you’re just trying to turn me into eye candy. Next thing you know you’ll want me shaking my arse on a stage to The Spy Who Loved Me.”

“You don’t need the whole uniform for that. All you need for that is the hat and a little pair of shorts—” She stopped with a grin because both men were laughing, and Sherlock felt his face grow warmer. That was fine, though, he could blame it on the wine. “Booty shorts.” Mary continued when she thought they were listening. “And not green, that’s what you’d think, but white. Like regulation underwear.”

Sherlock felt his forehead hit the table top.

“What?” Mary questioned, coming in close again. He could smell her perfume, not Claire de la Lune anymore but something deep and spicy.

“Regulation booty shorts.” Sherlock answered with great difficulty as he choked on absurdity. He decided he wouldn’t laugh at the joke, lest anyone discover how agreeable he found the image.

“Yeah!” Mary cheered playfully, needling Sherlock from behind with teasing pinches and making him twitch. “They could write ‘Support Our Troops’ on the bum!”

Her touches turned meaner, adding skittering finger across his shoulders. “Ma-ry!” Sherlock scolded, but without any of his usual heat.

“Laugh damn you!”

Sherlock pursed his lips stubbornly, only to be punished with a quick raspberry on the back of his neck that threw his head back in a wincing laugh. The sensation was like a thunderbolt down his spine, and he was suddenly aware that some combination of the warmth from the flat and the small amount of wine had left him hypersensitive.

His face was getting hotter, and Mary’s hands were everywhere, making him wiggle while trying to keep his seat. His first instinct, as always, was to turn and face her. Luckily he still had some wits about him, because that never turned out well. Instead he tried to run away.

He spun on the surface of the stool so his back was to his attacker. She was quick though, and slid squirming fingers down either side of his spine from neck to lumbar. At the same time John decided to join the fun, reaching out both hands to scratch at the tops of the detective’s knees.

The resulting sensations were overwhelming and caused a failure to launch on Sherlock’s part. His hips straitened, his back arched and his knees buckled when he tried to stand, feet already tangled in the footrest of the stool. He tumbled forward and braced for impact on the hard floor.

Instead he was caught by something warm and soft. His senses were flooded for a moment by the smell of wool while he tried to sort out why he hadn’t face-planted on the hardwood. John had caught him, arms looped under his.

Sherlock’s feet were still tangled in the stool, something he was too distracted to correct with his chin against John’s chest and the doctor’s eyes locked with his. The other man didn’t seem at all upset that his friend was doing nothing to untangle himself, in fact he was smiling a coy smile.

John’s voice was rough and deep. “Hello Sherlock.” He spoke slowly and breathed quickly. With a sharp tug he lifted the detective just high enough for their lips to meet and kissed him. It was gentle, unobtrusive but unhesitant.

There was enough change in position for Sherlock to get his feet under him, and the angle of the kiss changed seamlessly as he stood to his full height. When the kiss stopped Sherlock’s face was so full of horror and concern that John wasn’t sure whether to yank him back into his arms or flee. That’s when Mary stepped up behind the detective and planted an even softer kiss on the sensitive skin that inhabited the junction between ear, neck and curls. His face went slack, back arching while he took a deep breath. Then John’s mouth was on his again and he was caught, bound by the symmetry of the moment.

They broke apart. Sherlock’s face was slack again, eyes staring strait ahead. Three seconds. Four. His lips were pink from John’s kiss, his body covered in goosebumps from Mary’s.

What was this? John had been so insistent from day one that they were platonic, and since Sherlock was platonic with everyone that hadn’t seen a problem. Then Sherlock had loved John, but Sherlock died. When he rose again from the fetid dream of the dismantlement, there had been Mary. That would have been more of an issue, he thought, for someone else. But the bright space of his affection in the attic of his mind had room for Mary. She fit in perfectly next to John, as though the space was made for the two of them all along. He went through it all again.

“Sherlock?” Mary’s voice was bent with worry as she moved to stand next to John.

“Just let him work it out.” John reassured her.

Ten more seconds passed. Eleven. Sherlock suddenly squinted at them, sliding back into ordinary motion like a skipping dvd. “Is there any way I am finishing this evening without anything long winded or sentimental being foisted upon me?”


End file.
